


Madness

by Annie2Rose



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Careers (Hunger Games), F/M, Hunger Games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22993387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie2Rose/pseuds/Annie2Rose
Summary: Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Seventieth Hunger Games begin!
Relationships: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue

“Ladies first!”

Time comes to a halt. I can hear the waves crashing on the beach, the flapping wings of the hummingbirds. Impossible, of course, but I hear them nonetheless. To my right stands my neighbor, Gia, fidgeting, and to my left, a vaguely familiar girl whose face I recall from the school halls.

Gia has more reason to be nervous than I do. Despite the fact we only have talked once or twice, I know she took tesserae many times, and though I can’t be certain of exactly how many, it’s rather safe to assume she has at least twenty or so slips with her name written on them, whereas I have ten.

Our district has plenty of Careers to volunteer — as we call those who train for the Games — but there isn’t any rules in place to reduce the number of candidates. The Capitol left the matter to our hands, so we came up with an unofficial agreement: in odd years, just before the reaping, the eldest victor alive (until this day still our very first, Margot Seannery) handpicks the most promising boy and girl from the Training Academy to volunteer. In even years, however, volunteering would be forbidden, ~~and oh, may the odds be ever in your favor~~. Anyone who attempts to take the rightful place of a Career by volunteering too, forcing the Capitol to dust off some protocols, is to be left on their own in the arena, disgraced and with no gifts from sponsors or precious advices, as well as anyone who volunteers in even years. This “arrangement” is working very well so far, bringing some resemblance of order (and fairness, since training isn’t what you’d describe as perfectly legal), keeping hundreds of delusional kids from dying and giving them time to prepare properly.

Even years are dreadful to us, the few who don’t nurture any desire to die a horrible death and kill innocent children, but also dreadful to Careers, who are obliged to wait, ready or not to dive into the Games. In the course of fifty years, only once since established an arrogant kid decided to defy this agreement: a boy named Dwight, thirsty for blood, refused to wait, and paid the price of his impatience by dying after three days in the arena, abandoned by his district and allies, stripped of honor and then thirsty for nothing but water.

District 4’s escort, Lola Lane, puts her hand inside the glass ball, her fingers messing around with some slips, as if she’s savoring the moment. I wonder if she interprets that mere gesture as toying with children’s lives because the grin on her face is abnormal, sadistic even. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, The Seventieth Hunger Games has arrived!

Lane grabbed a slip. Her eyes, the color of a deep artificial hue of purple, brightens at the sight of the name, as if she knows whoever is about to be reaped and took great pleasure in it. The audience’s breath is hanging in anticipation, and even Seannery and Odair, our district mentors, are leaning in from their seats. “Annie Cresta!” She announces. 

I was five years old when I learned how to swim; no one taught me, I had no one to. I managed to learn by mimicking other swimmers who’d come by the beach. It turns out that it was quite a good method, for in less than two weeks I could swim backwards and hold my breath underwater for almost three minutes. I felt unstoppable — but a big wave stopped me a couple of days later, when it washed me down, nearly drowning me. I was so scared I couldn’t approach the margin for at least a week. All I kept thinking during my “break” from the water was “What a big wave.” I have this weird thing where I cling on to dumb facts when I panic. But to be fair, it’s all I can do when I have no one else but fish to support me, and it’s all I can do now.

The first thought that crosses my mind is “well, I don’t know Lola,” because I don’t, really, except for her annual appearances for the reaping and the glimpses I’ve caught of her on television. The second is “and I don’t look forward to.” It appears I had reason to be nervous, after all.

“Come on up, miss Cresta!” She calls for me, _my name, that’s my name,_ tilting her head in an attempt to spot me in the crowd.

Gia let out a sigh of relief, and I can’t blame her. She’s the only family of a five year old brother. She has to feed him, take care of him. He needed her. No one needed me, and besides, it’s not as if we were close friends. We’re neighbors. She offers me a sympathetic look, but I find myself being unable to give any gesture in return.

The sea of girls parted so I could make my way to the stage. Careers are known everywhere in the district, and obviously no one recognizes me as one of them; realizing that, pitiful looks pierce through me, a sudden common knowledge that I won’t survive hovering over the promenade.

I climb the stairs, welcomed by Lane’s scary and broad smile, and I don’t want her to touch me. She has this unsettling mean quality about her, as if she’s responsible for inventing the Games or, at least, some of the horrors waiting for the tributes in the arena. Her hair is dyed in a soft pink, silky and falling straight on her back, harmonizing with her flamboyant skin-tight magenta dress, adorned with puffy sleeves and shiny gems. I didn’t know her, I don’t want to know her, and I don’t like her. “Alright,” she says, touching me regardless as she positions me between the two glass balls. “Any volunteers? No? Let’s continue!”

Well, then. This is it. The Seventieth Hunger Games would begin for me soon enough.


	2. Haze

**T** he boy tribute is Asa Doherty, and Lane didn’t bother asking him how old he was, just as she didn’t bother asking me. Perhaps even years are like sabbatical years for her, a day-off so to speak, and when the next year comes she would finally see some action, some excitement, and get back to the _real_ work… Until then, please, just let those poor kids die already!

Well, Doherty isn’t poor. I don’t know him, but I know his father, and so does everyone else because he’s some sort of pearls expert; thus, his family is considerably wealthy — not enough to guarantee a seat at the stage built on the promenade, but enough to live with comfort. I doubt he had more than his mandatory share of slips.

It doesn’t really matter, then, how many times your name is in the ball. It doesn’t stand a chance to the mystery of the odds. It’s all about if they are in your favor or not. Talk about an edition that reminds us of that.

As soon as he was reaped, the hopelessness of the District 4’s citizens became palpable. Doherty’s lack of survival skill was obvious; he didn’t need any of those. Last but not least, no one had a clue of who I was (except maybe for the anglers and merchants, and I’m quite sure this is the first they hear of my name) as much as I don’t have a clue of whom most of them are. They could only speculate that, a girl that no one wept for when her name was called, a girl so bland and faceless that hardly anyone remembered her from the Market, a girl who wasn’t a student of the Academy, a girl skinny and gawky like me wouldn’t last a day in the arena. If there was any hope our district would be victorious this year, despite our volunteering ban, it had vanished as soon as Doherty and I have had our hands raised by Lane, introducing us as District 4’s tributes.

Four Peacekeepers rush us into the Justice Building, where we’re supposed to say our goodbyes to family and friends. Of course, on my side, no one will come. With no strings attached, I’m the last Cresta standing, and soon the earth will be deprived of our genes.

I don’t pay much attention to where I’m being lead, nor my surroundings; this whole situation seems a bit too unreal, a nightmare, and I’m only struck out of my torpor when I reach my destiny: a peculiar room it’s a way to put it, with its walls coated in a perfect shade of white, furniture with lines so precise, and incredibly large windows that appear to be merging with the ceiling, offering a beautiful view of the clouded sky. I have never seen such symmetry, elegance, and yet simplicity, before. A rectangular couch is placed right in the middle of the room, its design so linear its cushion looks stiff. When I sit down, though, it’s as comfortable as a heap of sand, and the similarity makes me relax.

_Sand._ Will I ever see the beach again? My beloved beach… _There’s still hope,_ I think to myself. _The arena might be a beach._ Not the most reassuring thought, but it makes me feel better anyhow, the subliminal presumption of dying somewhere it brings me peace, somewhere I belong. I didn’t have many expectations for my life, never knew what to do with it, but I never considered dying. It has never crossed my mind, as I’d prefer fantasizing about running away, mostly. When I was younger, I had this silly dream one day I would swim all the way out of District 4 and escape Panem forever, no looking back, settling in a distant island, far from the Capitol’s claws.

I wish I had tried.

How long have I been in here? Five minutes? Fifty minutes? I never imagined loneliness would affect me as it does now, with no guests to wish me luck and tell me they love me, how much they hope I come back against all odds. Being lonely never bothered me before, when I had the sea as company, but as I face death it dawns on me how much I was craving for human company all along. Not the company I had during my years in the Community Home or the company of school projects’ partners. I was craving for more than polite greetings, more than strictly-business exchanges… And I wouldn’t get the chance to find me a meaningful company anymore, would I? All that’s in store for me now is the company of my fellow tribute, if he’s willing, and the company of our mentors, if they decide I’m worthy of their time. I’ll pass Lola Lanes’ company, though.

Time is infinite and I’m beginning to grow impatient — and resentful, for somewhere buried deep in my heart there was still a throbbing hope that someone would come and visit me. Suddenly, I’m annoyed with Gia’s apparent disregard for me. I conveniently forget about my other six level neighbors and, a little insulted, I mull over it. She’s my neighbor! She borrowed oil from me once! All I get from her is that paltry look from earlier? Then I try to put myself in her shoes and the shocking truth that comes from it is I wouldn’t visit her either. I made sure to keep everyone at arm’s length, _no strings attached,_ so who am I kidding? I brought this upon myself.

When they come to get me, I can’t quite figure out their contorted countenance, until I realize they pity me, too. I furrow my brows, confused, for I never took any of the Peacekeepers as real people with real emotions, people capable of feeling sorry for reaped kids. As a matter of fact, the view of the Games in our district is so distorted everyone thinks it’s this big honor to be part of it. The most common first word among children here is probably “Career”. With that being said, why? Why do they pity me? I don’t think it makes the slightest difference to them if I’m a Career or not. Can it be due to the fact not a single person exerted their right to see me? Is that something new, something that has never happened? Whatever, I suppose. It’s fruitless to dwell on it.

After I rendezvous with Doherty, we are directed towards the lower levels of the Justice Building. We reach an open, cemented space, empty if not for a single car parked a few meters from our location, next to a metal wall. It’s a strange sight to see; it seems like an endless ocean of grayness, a black and greasy creature submerging from its depths. I’ve seen a car only once in my life and that was when a Capitol citizen (a woman with a funny name I can’t recall) came to our District on sanctioned matters and refused to walk around on foot. Her car was very similar in shape, but it had a horrendous orange painting that stuck out in the streets as much as a giant tangerine would have.

Up close, it bears an awkward resemblance to a cockroach. In itself is way too expensive to be of any real worth to district citizens, well-to-do and mayors included. Besides, the only access to other districts and the Capitol is through the railway line, and its use is extremely restricted anyways. This mechanical roach-like car reeks of vanity, luxury. Reeks of Capitol. This is the first moment I take to pay attention to Asa Doherty; to be honest, I want to know what he makes of this “ride” to the train station. He doesn’t seem the least bit impressed by the automobile, and in fact, he looks rather bored.

The shore and the avenue pass us by in a blur, and I can tell this will be a short ride. Asa cracks open the window and his bundle of thick, chestnut brown hair dances against the wind. “How soon do you think we’ll get there?”

His voice startles me. It’s coarse and low, if not threatening. It doesn’t match his juvenile features; it sounds like he’s an ancient, wild man. “Where?”

In comparison, my voice is of a toddler.

“The Capitol,” he answers. “Unless you’re planning on going somewhere else.”

The remark yanks a laugh out of me, unexpected and blurted out as undesired cough. “Why would I? I’ve heard it’s great there, in this time of the year.”

He looks at me. Intensely. And I can’t look away, not with those black-holed eyes staring at me, as if scanning for weaknesses. Then a smirk appears on his lips. “Are we allies?”

_Are we?_ I was anticipating some sort of tolerance on his part, but I didn’t have the time yet to contemplate an achievable alliance. I’m not even sure I’m not as good as dead. “Of course,” I say. “Unless you’re planning on forging alliances with some real Careers.”

“Why would I,” he turned his gaze to the landscape, “I’ve heard they all murder each other in the end.”

We spend the rest of our car ride in silence.

When we arrive at the train station, the shuttering of the cameras destabilize Asa’s nonchalant attitude. He’s as disoriented as me, working our way to the platform while reporters surround us with theirs flashes. As if it isn’t enough, we’re forced to stand by the doorway of the train, smiling and waving (in theory, because neither of us follow the instructions given by Lane), for five agonizing minutes before we’re allowed inside.

Then the doors are closed and my fate is sealed.

I don’t even sense the train parting, moving away, an imposing metal beast with unfathomable speed. Not a tremble, not a sound. I don’t know and wouldn’t dare to remember the place where the Capitol was built, but I’d say to Asa we’ll get there pretty fast, faster than we’d like to.

To my despair, Lane’s our designated tour guide. Asa never meets her eyes, and I suspect he’s not listening to her ramble. I can’t make sense of most of it in any case; something about dining and entertainment cars and lounge areas, every word imbued with such a heavy Capitol accent that the speech becomes indecipherable. Finally she shows us off to our private chambers. “There’s a bedroom, a bathroom and a closet. Explore the wonders our Tribute Express has to offer and be ready for supper in sixty minutes. Crystal clear?” She asks in a condescending tone on top of a fake smile.

Asa replies for both of us. “Crystal clear,” he says with undeniable sarcasm. Lane acts oblivious to it, though, and merrily leaves us on our own.

My private chamber is thrice the size of the minuscule compartment I (used to) call home, back in District 4. I (lived) live in a building with fifty-nine other compartments, all inhabited by poor, but not quite miserable, residents. There are plenty of those buildings far deep in the district, solid structures that are rumored to be older than the rebellion, and if you can prove sufficient financial stability to support yourself, you’re entitled to a compartment. In the event of losing your income, you’re tossed out. It used to happen all the time; eager teens dreamed of an independence they couldn’t really afford. Anyways, my private chamber is enormous, and every bit as fancy and extravagant as I’d expect.

I decide to take a bath, for starters, but before I fill the tub, I notice a small square above it, metallic and pricked with tiny holes. I flick through my memories trying to find a definition for the gadget when it clicks. It’s a shower. I quickly change my mind about the bath — I have never taken a shower before and I won’t miss this opportunity. Next to the faucet, I spot various buttons centimeters above their precise and small descriptions; one of them reads “hot water” and I get elated at the prospect of trying it. Summer sometimes warms the sea water a little, but a hot shower is a concept straight out of a dream, so that’s the option I go for. I pamper myself with a variety of gushing-water massages, coming rapidly from different directions all at once, and it’s hard, very hard to make my inebriated mind and body to comprehend I have to step out of the shower.

The closet surprises me, though, easing my way out of the bathroom with a heated floor under my feet, a cozy welcome. I go through the drawers of the dresser and choose some clothes absentmindedly, just a modest pair of navy blue pants combined with a white tank top. As I disentangle my hair, I catch a glimpse of myself on a mirror across the room. I look flushed, no doubt from the hot shower, but my thoughts focus only on what my appearance might convey to the audience, to the sponsors. I got muscles alright, however, in despite of an apparent fitness, all I can do is pretty much run and swim. Those are my skills. Killing, on the other hand… I cried when I killed my first cockroach. It lingered on my mind for weeks, the awful regret that came right after I stepped on it, even if I acted out of mercy — it was squirming as if in terrible pain.

When I enter the dining car (that’s what Lane was referring to, after all, a car where we’re supposed to gather to dine and not a car that eats us for dinner), everyone’s already there and I become conscious of my tardiness. “Sorry. I lost track of time.”

“It’s fine dear,” says Margot with a faint smile. “Hurry up and eat before it gets cold.”

I sit next to Asa and across from Margot as I’m served a bowl of soup, rich, savory and full of vegetables I’ve only ever seen before in school books about District 11, the one responsible for Panem’s agriculture. I’m told it’s only an “entrée”, not to gorge myself in it, but their warnings are far beyond my caring.

Lane’s not pleased with my table manners.

“So… What can you do, miss Cresta?” She asks, visibly distressed. “Mister Doherty here was just telling us about his… What is it called, again? Oh yes, photographic memory. I don’t know how it could possibly be of any help in the arena, though.”

I’ve heard about the term before, in school. If it’s true, and if it’s as I remember, it truly is an amazing ability. “Really? I can think of thousands of ways it’ll help him in the arena.” They fall silent, but as I steal a glance at Asa’s direction, I see he’s smiling. “I can swim.”

Lane regains her composure and stifles a chuckle. “A girl from District 4 who can swim, that’s unheard of!” I’m so angry at her derisive response I can’t think of a proper comeback. I stare at her in utter disbelief.

At least no one laughs, and to my further astonishment, Finnick examines me for a moment, unaffected by Lane’s bitter words, as if realizing I’m present for the first time. “But you _really_ can swim, can’t you? You’ve got a strong upper body. It’s a kind of muscle that doesn’t come nice and easy, without serious effort.”

“That’s right Finn,” Margot agrees, and after a brief pause, she continues. “Listen, we all would prefer Careers to be here instead of you two, there’s no point in denying that. But please know I’ll do my best. I don’t give up on children’s lives nice and easy, without serious effort.” She nudges Finnick’s arm, and in return, he grabs her hand, caressing it with his thumb. They look adorable, like grandmother and grandson, and I can’t help but beam with instant happiness for them. I only wish I had a grandmother, a loving and endearing family relationship, or as in their case, someone who feels like family; I may not know much about them, but I do know they’re not related by blood. If my memory serves me right, she was his mentor during the Games. It was an odd year. She must have handpicked him to volunteer. Finnick was younger than I am now... The youngest victor in history.

“That’s right Mags,” he says cheerfully, “You don’t do that.”


	3. Awake

**A** fter supper, Lola Lane requests our presence at what she refers as the Entertainment Room, so we can watch the recaps of the reaping together. Needless to say I find it a terrible idea, but I manage to dodge that bullet by vomiting the main course (and probably the dessert too) all over her pretty clothes. Needless to say we’re dismissed immediately, to everyone’s relief; even Margot and Finnick seem alleviated. Not that I think their relief got anything to do with avoiding the recaps, which is my case. I think they’re appeased because they get to avoid Lane — the same goes for Asa, who appeared to be interested in the tributes, but not that interested in Lane’s company.

I decide to head straight to my chambers in the midst of hushed good nights, anxious to get some sleep. 

But I can’t sleep. My bed is too comfortable, my pillows are too feathery, the sheets are too delicate, the duvets are too smooth. Everything’s excessively soft. Suddenly, I see. I understand why the splendor of my bedroom bothers me, bothers my body in a way the bathroom couldn’t before, during my blissful shower. All this time, I thought I’ve come to terms with my sealed fate. _Hot water is nice,_ I thought. _Heated floor is wonderful,_ I thought. _This soup is good,_ I thought. And I thought all of it because it’s what I do best. I cling to dumb facts (Indulgence is fine) when I panic (Annie Cresta!). I’ve never come to terms with my frightening current situation, and now I have to deal with the consequences of living in autopilot since the very moment I was reaped.

Part of me remained next to Gia at the promenade, and never really left. My body is here, but the same can’t be said for my soul. Moreover, how am I even here? How did it happen? How can it be, one time you’re home, you’re in District 4, and in a blink of an eye you’re on board of an opulent train headed for televised demise. I guess that’s part of the reaping experience, part of the magic behind the odds. Now you live, now you don’t. One minute you’re safe, the next you’re doomed. That’s it. I’m in the Hunger Games, me, Annie Cresta, as Lane announced. And after such epiphany, how can I ever sleep again?

I decide to leave my bed — no, not _my_ bed. Capitol’s bed. In school, I’ve learned about Panem’s districts industries, and there’s one in particular that stuck with me. District 10, livestock. There, farmers would care for and feed the animals until they were ready for slaughter, for consumption. That’s exactly how I feel; an animal being fed, cared for with unimaginable delight until I’m ready for the Capitol’s citizens consumption, for slaughter. How could I ever allow myself to actually enjoy the ride? They took me from my home! From _my_ bed! I worked so, so hard to earn those, just to be stripped away from it by perverse rich people. To them my life means nothing, and I’ll only have worth when I die a gruesome death or survive by killing viciously every kid who stands in my way.

Asa’s question resurfaces and I’m panicking. I need some air. I need the sea, a calming dive, salt water on my lips, on every inch of me. _How soon do you think we’ll get there?_

The real question, however, is _what then?_ I know Margot said she won’t give up on us, but that alone won’t be enough. I know Asa let implicit we’d be allies, but the truth is our mentors will have to choose between one of us eventually… And I don’t have anyone to go back to, unlike Asa. We’ll get there, and what then? I’ll be part of the Games. Oh, such an honor! Lots of Careers are jealous of me now.

I roam aimlessly from car to car, lounge areas mostly, trying to find somewhere with a skylight; I need to see the outside, if I can’t run away. But I just end up in an occupied room, quite big compared to the others, but with scarce furniture: just two fancy crimson sofas and a large widescreen television, which is on. The lights are off, but the screen illuminates enough to delineate a silhouette sitting on the far end of one of the sofas. I can’t tell who it is, though.

Still, whoever it is senses my presence right away. “I’m watching the recaps of the reapings. It’s… Devastating,” a sighed pause. I’d recognize that powerful voice anywhere. No one else but Asa. “Can’t sleep?”

“Yeah…” I answer a bit apprehensive. “May I join you?” As someone who was trying to escape the exact idea of the Games only seconds ago, as someone who vomited on Lane to evade the sight of the kids I’ll be up against, I don’t understand why the question comes out of my mouth. I tell myself that maybe the issue at hand is I don’t want to be alone.

“Be my guest,” he says as patting the space next to him. “Now they’ll reprise District 9.”

I sit down, settling in but maintaining a respectful distance between us, while the Anthem plays through the sound system placed in various areas of the room, so loudly enclosing us it makes me feel like I’m there. It _is_ devastating. “I didn’t think it’d be possible for a escort to look worse than Lane,” I manage to say in a poor attempt to lighten the mood when the camera focuses on who the subtitle claims to be Paulette Authier, the District 9’s escort. She’s a tiny woman dressed in an emerald green dress that blooms like petals on her shoulders, combined with a disproportionate bright yellow wig; she’s probably paying a homage to corns. No wonder the stylists dress us tributes in abhorrent costumes if they’re willing to go around dressing like that.

“You should’ve seen District 6’s escort. The guy was identical to a wagon.” We both share a laugh that dies as soon as the girl tribute is reaped. Her name is Wren O’Malley and she’s sixteen years old. Still, she looks older and it’s evident that’s the result of a lifetime of working hard. Asa turns his attention me. “Are you scared? I mean, that you might have to kill them?” Then he stares at the television again, scrutinizing Wren’s demeanor. She looks tired.

I hesitate. I can’t be honest because that would be saying “I actually doubt I’ll have the guts to do it.” I can’t say that to him, can I? Allies or not, I don’t want him to think of me as easy prey, just to kill me when the first opportunity arises. On the other hand, he doesn’t look like someone who has the guts required for brutal murder, too. But who knows for sure? So I merely say, “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“Safe answer,” he says.

We miss the boy tribute and two hosts appear on the screen, weaving comments about the contestants so far. They overlap each other’s opinions with irrelevant and biased expectations; “she’s sturdy”, one of them says, to which the other replies with “I can’t argue, but I’m still betting on 2. Who isn’t, frankly?”

“I’m not,” a third voice jumps in their conversation, but it doesn’t come from the speakers. I can’t make out their features in the dark, but I’m presuming its owner is Finnick Odair, the only one aboard this train who has a reassuring and friendly voice by nature, contrary to the Capitol’s affected hosts. “And so does Mags. We’ll bet on you. It’s part of our job to believe in our own.”

Asa establishes eye contact with him, as intense as it was with me. “Is it worth it? The job that comes with the victory?”

Since victory isn’t a topic I yet covered in my mind, its spoils were most definitely beyond my consideration; the fact the winner’s fate is to become a mentor for their district is ghastly, plain cruel, and to my convenience it had evaporated from my knowledge. I take a moment to picture myself as a mentor, watching year after year reaped kids march to their deaths, or worse, to their cursed victories. Help them through new and innovative atrocious arenas, plead for their lives to obnoxious sponsors. Margot does this since the Twelfth Hunger Games, often with no assistance. How does she endure it? How is she still sane? Is that why she trains our children? Handpicks them? To give them the best odds possible at the same time as sparing, if at least for a year, those who can’t fight? That’d be a noble presumption, though, as far as noble can be applied to this sentence. Whatever. It doesn’t matter, because in the end, it’s appalling. If you somehow survive their sadistic Games, your prize is a lifetime of mental ones. A lifetime of tortures, of complicity. But make no mistake, there’s a silver lining. You’ll be rich and famous and honorable.

The inquiry disturbs Finnick and he needs to sit down before answering. “This job… Even if you win the Games, it makes sure you never leave the arena. You both should be prepared for that.”

“I thought so,” Asa says. “It’s part of the reason I don’t plan on winning.”

My eyes widen.

“What’s your plan, then?” Finnick asks, taken aback.

“To die, of course,” he briskly declares. Then he gets up and goes for the door, but he doesn’t leave before glancing at Finnick one last time. “The victory is too costly, don’t you think?”

“What does he mean?” I voice my concern out loud, stunned. By costly does he mean the burden of mentoring? The haunting that for sure will follow the killing of his opponents?

Finnick breathes in and breathes out, visibly distraught. “He means he knows more than I gave him credit for. More than he should.”

I owe Asa as much as he owes me, which is nothing at all. But I can’t help but to feel worried about his suicidal thoughts. “Margot said she wouldn’t give up easily. Tell me you won’t give up on him just because he said those things out of… I don’t know, fear? Stress?” At some point, giving up on him might be the same as choosing me to survive, choosing who will benefit from their aid and from the sponsors, and I understand this rationally, but I can’t accept it. It would be, indeed, too costly.

Finnick studies me, and I grab the opportunity to size him up as well. The light provided by the screen isn’t nearly enough to do justice to his beauty, but his eyes, the same color of the ocean in a sunny day, are brightened, and so are his golden brown locks. Perhaps it’s due to his tanned skin, but he feels familiar, and he feels like I could entrust him with my life. But that’s often the very trap of beautiful and kind creatures — they tend to be lethal, and as he takes his time watching me, I wonder if the lethality beneath all of his allurement will be used against me, against Asa. “Mags won’t, no matter what,” he says at last. “But he didn’t say those things out of stress or fear, you know that. He’s of sound mind and I’ll respect his decisions.”

I’m angry. How can I know that, how can he know that? But it’s true. I’m angrier because it’s true, because Asa _is_ of sound mind. Everything he says, his very intonation, his disturbing questions, can only come from a logical person. “So you’ll give up on him? I don’t want-”

“No,” he interrupts me, “I won’t. What I’m saying is, when push comes to shove, _and it will,_ I’ll know where he stands.”

The Anthem resonates through the room again, and I shudder. I don’t want to die. I don’t want Asa to die. I don’t want Wren O’Malley to die. I don’t want anyone to die. I’m breathing too fast now. I’m panicking. The television is so loud. Asa forgot to turn it off. “Can you turn it off, please? Asa forgot to,” I whisper.

But he hears me, getting up and complying with no need of further ado. He touches the screen and as the room goes pitch black he commands to no one in particular, “Lights on.” And the lights _do_ come on. I must look funny to him now because he lets out a soft, melodic laugh. “There’s switchers, but it’s easier by voice.”

With the room lit, Finnick basks in its light, more handsome than ever; but he’s standing in the exact same way he did in the chariot, during his Games’ parade, wearing that ridiculous Poseidon costume, and I snort. Then I guffaw. “I’m sorry,” I try to say as I catch my breath.

But he doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest; quite the opposite. He seems rather amused. “What?”

“It’s just…” I struggle to explain, still laughing. “How the weight of your body’s on your left and your right hand is on your hip. You’re Poseidon again.”

He nods in understanding and smiles. “I’m missing my trident. Tragic,” Finnick shifts his stares to different spots in the room, as if being photographed. “But I trust I’m ravishing regardless.”

I’m again at ease. “Well, I can’t say I’ve seen better.”

His smile broadens. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Asa. Now you get some sleep, alright? We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

I promise I will, but of course I don’t. It’s impossible. A few hours pass me by when the brilliant thought of rearranging the sheets and the pillows on the floor comes to me, but then it’s too late; I barely shut my eyes close when Lane comes to collect me, 7 am sharp. “We’re almost there!” She shouts as she enters my chambers without permission. “Be ready in fifteen minutes, crystal clear?”

I grumble. _Crystal clear._


End file.
